And Rage
by BlueGreenApples
Summary: The love and rage in the lives of the victors, tributes and rebels of Panem. A drabble collection of canon pairings in the film and book universes. Rated M for violence, future language and situations.
1. Six Feet, Between

**Title**: Six Feet, Between

**Characters**: Katniss, Peeta

**Pairing**: Katniss/Peeta

* * *

There was a gap between she and Peeta, Katniss decided. Something like six feet of space in the literal sense, at least.

He was resting, eyes closed and head propped on one of Finnick's woven baskets. All of his capable limbs relaxed but not sprawled. It was a strange distinction for her to notice, but it registered all the same.

Peace never lasted in the Games, though. The dull blond mess of his hair caught the breeze and in a blur his hand darted toward a weapon. Katniss felt her hands clench as he tore himself up from the sand in a wary state of half-wakefulness.

When his bright eyes flickered to hers in question, she couldn't find it in herself to smile or reassure him. Instead she watched, mute with a guilt she wasn't sure how to feel, as he realized paranoia had ripped him from whatever bit of sleep he had managed.

He looked half-mad with anxiety. Such was the prize of a Victor, Katniss thought angrily. She knew Peeta was only embarrassed of his new-found edginess. But she was angry _for _him, nonetheless.

Distracted by the familiar haze of resentment for the Capital as it built in her mind, Katniss simply nodded to whatever Peeta mumbled as he resettled himself beside her. She wasn't sure how long it was until his exhaustion won out and he succumbed again to sleep.

Soon enough her eyes had strayed back to him. His broad body shifted minimally as he breathed. A subtle tension simmered in his strong shoulders and his face refused to relax from a grimace. It slowly dawned on Katniss just what was drawing her eye back to Peeta.

He was _distant._A lot of the unassuming softness that had characterized him was gone now. It had slipped away sometime between the two Reapings. Something in her chest panged at the thought of the boy-with-the-bread cooling into someone else. Someone more like herself.

Katniss jerked her eyes away to scrutinize the slow inching of the tide instead.


	2. Red Rebel Red

**Title**: Rebel

**Characters: **Foxface, Katniss, Peeta

**Pairings: **implied Peeta/Katniss

* * *

She'd been staring off, at the clouds. When it happens, when her life effectively ends, she'd been daydreaming about the windmills on the hill beyond the podium. They call her name. They call her name, but no one gasps. They don't know which way to turn to see her face. Even her fellow district members can't glut their morbid curiosity—will she be brave, stricken or stoic?—because she's a no-name. She thinks she hears a whispered, '_who?_' in the crowd of girls around her. So she forces her mind past the animal fear that accompanies her Reaping. Even if, in her district, a name called is a death sentence read, she forces herself toward the platform. _She forces herself to think._

She knows she's the no-one from a filler district. It's a reality no one bothers to conceal from her behind the scenes. They gaze through her, if they bother to look at all. Constantly forgetting her name, talking over her head in hurried tones. But it doesn't mean anything to her, aside from distantly fueling her desire to win. _To live_.

The Capitol is easy to melt into. Easy to predict and float through, even if training isn't. So when her interview comes around, she's ready. She's smiling. Clinically, she can feel it—recognizes the pull of muscle and skin as her teeth bare themselves obligingly. It's the reaction most suited to the situation so she presents it. Simple. Caesar is satisfied with her responses to his bland pleasantries. _A success—_one that must be the first of many—if she is to survive_._

His dyed and pinned and crafted features are morbidly interesting at this proximity. There are cinches and places where his skin is taut and shouldn't be. He's the work of a hand or machine or perhaps both, she knows. And, like all things, he's not as flawless as he's polished to appear. With a laugh in her throat, she chatters a bland answer to his equally pointless question. But behind her eyes, she thinks: _I can see your strings._

So she grins—bares her startlingly white, even teeth—at the face of the Capitol. Just like they want, and they never realize her duplicity. They don't see that every smile is a grimace twisted into mocking surrender. They can't hear the bitter truths piling up in her throat. She plays the game they've created on their terms. She doesn't make an impression. This anonymity will save her life, eventually. _It's so easy._

Statistically, she's playing into a worth-while plan. No one comes looking for the middle-rankers. It won't save her life in a confrontation. But the numbers that flash across her face on that screen are, fittingly, another piece of her defense. She's got a plan. It's equal parts subterfuge and cerebral. _It's worked before._

Standing on the bomb that's more ironic than anyone has ever realized—_don't move, or we'll kill you so quick and bloody that it won't give you the honor of _entertaining us_ with it_—she's as ready as she can be for this game, for this probable-death. But all she can think is what a shame it is her thoughts are locked in her head. They'll never know they didn't break her mind.

Across the Cornucopia, she eyes the hard-faced girl with a long braid. She, whose no-where district should have made them alike. And although they don't know each other, and although their homes should make them even targets, she can't escape the cruel hope that Katniss Everdeen dies fast. _Perhaps painlessly_, she amends in a dark morbidity that the Capitol has tainted her with,_ because_ _she's the one they want to win—and they don't deserve the satisfaction_.

Then the projected countdown is running out, and she banishes her fevered philosophy for practicality. She loosens her muscles and breathes deeply to oxygenate, or keep from vomiting—she's not sure anymore. It's hard to grasp at the cool surety of the plan she's been forming for weeks when her killer is _probably_ standing in the clearing. And before she can choose there's an explosion of movement and her ears are ringing with a primal need to flee. _Run run _run _**run**__._

Now she hardly remembers how long it's been. Her mind is full of nagging hunger and sluggish calculations. Cannonshots or explosions, how many does that leave? But then announcements come, and her odds just keep slipping. She's against pairs now. And her district mate is long gone. Slain immediately at the bloodbath, she recalls. Back then she'd huddled in her bare-hands-dug fox burrow in the bushes, fighting tears. Then the cannon's roar meant something and she'd been sane enough to watch the skies by night to keep track. _But now what?_

Her pack—the one she risked her life for, despite her better judgment—proved to be exactly the bust that she'd imagined it would be. Only enough food to keep her mobile. Enough to keep her up and stumbling, upright but lamed prey for the Capitol's predators. For its favorites and mutations alike. But she'd made it this far and her basic self, a cold and frighteningly base version she'd never known before the arena, had demanded she press on. She'd fallen into the habit of staying alive in this hell. How many were left, again? _So close, so close_.

Her feet drag as she tries to weave a silent path in the underbrush. It's harder now, when she can't quite recall how to place her heel or remember to pry back limbs before she steps forward. Yet her brain isn't quite ready to surrender—so it processes a crash ahead of her, in the thinner cover of a half-clearing—and she has enough time and sense left to hide. There's someone _humming_ and for a moment she's sure she's lost what tenuous grasp she had left. Then she sees golden hair and nearly smiles. It's the Girl-on-fire's boy. She isn't sure if it's luck or her end, come to meet her at last. But she smells the syrupy sweetness of the berries staining his fingers, and cannot help herself. _And it is a gamble she loses._

As she lays, not too far off from where she made her fatal error, she considers that she _just might _be able to call herself lucky. She had enjoyed the poisonous taste, killing as it quenched. It might have been worse. She might have approached the pair from the wrong angle. She might have caught Katniss unsuspecting and had an arrow in her heart instead. But before she can decide if another fate might have been sweeter than the berries at the back of her throat, light floods in and everything is white. _White as the clouds floating by windmills._


	3. The Weight of the Burden

**Title: **The Weight of the Burden

**Characters:** Finnick Odair, Annie Cresta

**Pairing:** Finnick/Annie

* * *

Neither of them is whole. Not even when they're together. But that doesn't seem to matter to Annie. She's more lucid, more determined than he's seen her since before her Games when she tells him.

"I love you."

For a moment, they're both silent with the weight of the burden of those words.

Then, softly: "Sorry."

It spills from her lips in a pale and patient way that is _so_ very Annie that it makes Finnick ache. A manic moment strikes him and he wants to laugh. Because in the midst of something so tragic, she still knows just what to say—and that is why, he knows, he loves her.

Despite himself, though it will break them both. Finnick loves Annie the way he loves the tide and the salt air. Intrinsically, outside any process of consideration. Even if he doesn't mean to, even if he can never be the thing she deserves.

So he weaves a hand into her hair with a whisper: "I know."


	4. The Shape of Her Face

**Title**: The Shape of Her Face

**Characters**: Peeta, Katniss

**Pairing**: Peeta/Katniss

* * *

Unrequited is a state that Peeta's accustomed to. Loving Katniss had been a study in masochism, after all.

He had probably always loved her. Before he knew what it meant to feel a pinch in his chest, when the shape of her face alone made him smile. Even then, she hardly knew his name. But he kept on. Carried the little fire she'd set with her voice for his entire childhood, to the day they stood together at their Reaping.

When her profile trembled with the effort of her calm, Peeta felt his heart lurch. He had always loved her, and now he was going to die at her side.


	5. Sympathy in Hell

**Title**: Sympathy in Hell

**Characters**: Plutarch Heavensbee, Haymitch Abernathy, Effie Trinket

**Pairing**: Haymitch/Effie (implied)

* * *

It's late in the night when they've finally compiled a list of all the contacts, sympathizers and otherwise whom the Rebellion must be concerned for in the Capitol. There's more than Plutarch expected. He's frowning at the list when Haymitch pipes up again.

"One more: Effie Trinket."

Before he can stop himself Plutarch asks incredulously, "Your Capitol escort?" He vaguely remembers her in a swirl of bright, garish hair and clothing—but nothing of her personality or actions that would suggest a hint of Rebel-inclination or usefulness to the cause. "Whatever for?"

Haymitch is silent. For a moment, Plutarch nearly feels guilty for running the idea off. They'll be stretched keeping the vital members of their Capitol network alive as it is. He steels himself. There's no room for misplaced sympathy. He's ready to say so when Haymitch curses and mutters something unintelligible.

"What?"

Haymitch is glowering at his bottle, as if frustrated with it for his unexpected confession. At last he sighs, "Effie cried." Studying the slosh of the white liquor rather than meet Plutarch's surprised expression, he specifies: "For our kids."

He doesn't have to say _when they died_, _miserably unprepared and underfunded_, because it's implicit in the self-loathing that hangs thick around Haymitch—but the Gamemaker is baffled none-the-less. He had never gathered from the Capitol escort and surly Victor's interactions that they shared anything further than utmost scorn for one and other.

Plutarch doesn't say that _tears_ hardly qualify as a worthwhile contribution or act of rebellion. He suspects that there's far more to the tale than he'll hear. Yet, he remains conflicted. She was young, of course, but she knows next to nothing and they can hope that her ignorance will save her. It's more than he can say for the names on the list in his hands.

Making an enormous fuss as he struggles upright, Haymitch seems to recognize Plutarch's reluctance. "Used to pitch her own pay into the sponsorship for them, too. Thought I didn't know." His tone is flippant, but his expression is grave.

Shaking his head, as though finally committing to the enormous favor he's asking of the Gamemaker-turned-rebel, Haymitch finally looks up and levels: "I know it's asking too much. Still try."

Finally, Plutarch nods. Feeling the weight of his tasks, he sounds as haggard as Haymitch appears. "No promises."


	6. These Violent Delights

**Title**: These Violent Delights

**Characters**: Cato, Clove, Thresh, Katniss

**Pairing**: Cato/Clove (implied)

* * *

Clove was screaming.

Cato realized it with a jolt that sent a foreign feeling clattering along his bones. Clove was wailing with fear so thick her voice wobbled and skipped. The sound seemed to hum in the trees as he reeled back.

_Too late_, his mind taunted. _ Too far. _ The meadow was nearly a half-mile through thick bush. He ran anyway.

He broke into the clearing where the cornicopia gleamed, heart pumping. _Too much. _ All he can see are flashes, mind spinning and eyes flashing:

The Girl on Fire, struggling to stand, her bloodied face a mess of emotion.

Eleven, mountainous shoulders hunched in a rage.

_Good_, Cato thinks. _ Good, take the bitch_. The glory of the kill doesn't even matter anymore. He and Clove can still win this. _So close, so close._

The wind picks up and he spots it. Something in the long grass. Gleaming. A weighted knife. He tracks the sight into the clump of weeds near Eleven's feet with a slowly settling dread.

_No_, he thinks. _No, no, no, no._ Something rattles free in his head and he's moving. Stumbling, his muscles are driving him forward on instinct now. His sword is raised and he's shouting. Guttural. Furious.

Eleven only watches, gathering all the bags left at the table without so much as a flicker of fear. As he lopes off into the taller grain, Cato is prepared to follow. All he can see is Eleven's form weaving into the grass. The edges of his vision are strained and tinted with his anger. Some flicker of sight or sound-a fluttering on the edge of his mind makes him hesitate.

Almost absently, he notes the girl fleeing into the forest, something small clutched at her side. Her braid flares out behind her as she hits the edge of the trees and dissolves into their shadows. Fast, but not faster than Clove. They could hunt her trail.

_Make a choice. Eleven or fire-bitch? _Tossing his head on his shoulders, nearly mad with the anger clogging his chest, Cato gathers himself. _The bags. We need the bags. _He glares out at the field of dry grain where Eleven had disappeared. _Eleven, then._

His chest is heaving from his sprint, breaths coming heavy and loud. He almost misses it-till something touches his ankle. He's still hypersensitive, battle-ready, and the tap makes him leap back. But that sad little sound comes again-a soft murmur, muted and wet like a gurgle of labored sound-and he glances to his feet.

Bruise-black eyes squint up at him. For a moment, he's adrift. Then it sticks: Clove. Her screams, echoing in the forest. He doesn't realize that he's on his knees-just feels the sharp blades of meadowgrass scrape his arms and neck as he caves over her little body.

It's as if she's simply collapsed. Something is off, but his mind is racing and he can't quite place it. She's half-buried in the mess of scraggly meadow, anyway. Impatient, he turns her face from the tuft of grass where she's fallen. "Clove?"

Her eyes roll to white with the motion. Confusion seeps in and Cato feels his features cloud with it. She looks fine aside from a trickle of blood near her mouth. No arrows, no gashes. All at once, he takes in her face. Heaves involuntarily. The pixie shape is spoiled by a hideous indentation. On the side he'd been unable to see, until he moved her. _Eleven_, he realizes. Only he would have the strength to-an animal sound shakes him. She can only groan in response.

"Stay with me!" The words rip through the quiet as he crumples along side her. "Clove?" She works her jaw, but the blood pooled there just foams for all the effort. His thick fingers find the uninjured side of her head. Callouses catch on the intricate pattern she'd knotted into it in the predawn light. _So vain_, he'd goaded. And she smiled, white and sharp. "Clove!"

A string of foul words choke his throat. He's groaning them into her hair when he feels her start to seize. Thin arms and legs heave as her body slips free of her mind, and Cato can only press them down and whisper bloody promises. "I'll kill them." He groans through his teeth, clutching at her. "All of them."

_Death throes_, they were called. He remembered that with such startling clarity in this hellish moment. His mentors had explained them so clinically. Just a natural part of the process, they'd said. They hadn't mentioned she'd drool and squeal-or that he'd care, because the awful noises were from _Clove_.

_Just a game_, they all said. Just a game and you'll win. It's to be expected. _Afterall, you show such promise._

Clove's retching stops suddenly. Cato screws his eyes shut as her muscles relax. He didn't hear her last breath. Not over the pounding in his head, but he's sure. The cannon fires as Cato forces himself up.

His shoulders are set up high, a shell of muscle and hatred and bone and he can't hear anything but a rushing. His hands are knotted to the point of pain, making violent, spasmodic fists. Who was that screaming? _On and on and on, roaring in something beyond anger._ He can't care. The game isn't about his _honor _and fucking _glory_ for the District. Not now. Now it's _revenge_.

And looking down at the ruin that was Clove, Cato doesn't think it feels much like a game anymore.


End file.
